anything: if it is good, I'm content to take whatever you think it worth."
"Well, if you would trust me that far, it's funny you won't say why you expect this stock to rise."
"I don't mind telling you, but if I were you, I wouldn't talk about it. This is the road that Bannerdale nearly had possession of at the time he broke down, and his doctors told him to go to Europe and quit business entirely. He must have absolute rest, they said. All right. He goes and barricades himself up, then his partners, thinking he isn't going to get well, begin to sell, and the stock goes down. Now, Bannerdale held an option on the majority of that stock, an option that doesn't expire for another month. He depended on certain banks and trust companies and financial friends to furnish the money, but the moment exaggerating newspapers said that Bannerdale was a dying man, they all deserted him, and he couldn't get a cent. When he actually left for Europe, all Bannerdale stocks dropped six points, and they've been going down ever since, especially when it became known his partners were selling. Now, I believe Bannerdale will secure that road, sick or well."
"You're betting, then, on Bannerdale's life or death?"
"Exactly."
"You think he is going to live?"
"I do. He's a tough nut, is old Bannerdale."
Stranleigh rose to his feet. "Very good, Mr. Garner. Tell me exactly what to do."
"You see that place opposite?" said Garner, pointing to a broker's office on the business side of Parkstrasse. "You go over there, and tell them to put you on to the chief office in Frankfort by telephone; buy as much stock of the Great South-Western Short Line as you care to carry."
"Shall I do this in my own name, or in yours?"
"In your own name, of course. You'll be giving them a cheque for the amount. Besides, as I said, I'm quite willing to take whatever you allow me, and we don't need any documents about it."
"Right," said Stranleigh. "Here is my address, and whenever you wish me to sell, drop in on me and give the order. Good afternoon."
Nearly a week passed, but Stranleigh saw nothing of his dilapidated client. He began to wonder whether the man was a swindler of some sort, but for the life of him he could not see how Garner was to make any money out of the deal Stranleigh had put through in his own name. Enlightenment came to him one morning at breakfast, when he opened the Paris New York Herald. The headlines were sufficient, and ran as follows:—
GREATEST COUP OF MODERN TIMES.
BANNERDALE HAS NEVER BEEN IN VIENNA AT ALL,
AND THE REPORTERS HAVE BESIEGED
AN EMPTY HOUSE.
LORD STRANLEIGH, ENGLAND'S MULTI-MILLIONAIRE,
COMES TO BAD-NAUHEIM IN HIS SPECIAL
CAR TO MEET BANNERDALE,
WHO IS IN DISGUISE.
STRANLEIGH WILLING TO BACK BANNERDALE WITH
A HUNDRED MILLION POUNDS IN HARD
CASH IF NECESSARY.
"Panic and ruin among the anti-Bannerdales … Great South-Western Short Line stock jumps thirty-three points … Cable kept red-hot offering Bannerdale unlimited capital, but he isn't taking any … Believed in Wall Street that his illness was a bluff … Wall Street says cardiac trouble impossible, because Bannerdale has no heart."
THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERE
Layout 2
CHAPTER II.
THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERE.
Lord Stranleigh was not house-cleaning exactly, but rather furbishing up a bit, for he expected a distinguished visitor. The rapprochement between Russia and Britain was to be helped forward another notch by the entertainment of His Highness Prince Azov. A great banquet at the Guildhall had been arranged, presided over by the Lord Mayor, and attended by members of the Cabinet, Ambassadors, Ministers, representatives of science, art, and literature, with a generous sprinkling of English nobility; indeed, one or two scions of the Royal Family would occupy seats of honour at the Guildhall table. The Prince was to be presented with the Freedom of the City in a gold box, and during the first week of his stay in London some important and dignified function was allotted to every day.
Throughout this week the Prince was to be the guest of the Russian Embassy; after that he came to Lord Stranleigh, removed the decorations of his rank, and then the pair, who were old friends, intended to have a good time together like any other young men about town.
Stranleigh was giving final instructions regarding the preparation of the suite of rooms for Prince Azov's occupation when the usually imperturbable Ponderby came in, betraying a state of agitation which filled his master with astonishment. Ponderby's stout figure seemed to have shrunk. His erstwhile rubicund countenance was actually pale, and his face wore a crestfallen expression almost akin to terror that was not without its touch of comicality. Indeed, Stranleigh almost smiled, and, in fact, would have smiled, had the victim been a man of less consequence than his indispensable valet. But instead of smiling, he spoke very calmly.
"Well, Ponderby, what's the trouble?"
"It's the Suffragettes, my lord. They demand to see your lordship, and won't believe you're not at home. There's about twenty of them, my lord."
"A mere mistake in identity, Ponderby. Tell them the address of the Premier is No. 10, Downing Street. Turn them away firmly, but kindly."
"They won't be turned away, my lord. The moment the footman opened the door, they rushed him; nearly knocked Spilkins over, my lord, and now they're all in the hall, except one, who stands outside the door, waving a banner inscribed 'Votes for Women.'"
This time Stranleigh did smile, in spite of himself, as he pictured the six-foot Spilkins, so cold and formal in manner, unexpectedly submerged at the door by an impetuous onrush.
"Ponderby, when you are captured, the only thing to do is to capitulate as gracefully as possible. Go to the hall, Ponderby, take a glance over the assembled women, and note the general tone of their costumes, then show them into whatever room best corresponds in colour and decoration with their own attire. Tell them I shall do my sell the honour of waiting upon them within five minutes. Ask Spilkins to lure away the bannered young lady from outside the door, then, when you have them all seated comfortably, report progress to me."
The score of ladies were in quite a flutter when they learned how easily victory had come to them, and there arose a murmur of admiration as the solemn Ponderby ushered them into one of the most beautiful drawing-rooms they had ever seen. The girl with the banner rolled it up hastily, as if somehow it was out of keeping in a salon displaying such perfect taste. When all were seated,
